Picture You Dead

93

Wednesday, 6 November

Natalie was at the kitchen table eating her breakfast and reading the morning’s Argus when Hegarty came back in with the dogs and removed his fleece. As he gave her a kiss he saw the front-page headline, for the second day running, was about the murder victim on their doorstep, named as Archie Goff, a career burglar.

There was a photograph of him, along with a smaller, inset photograph of Detective Superintendent Roy Grace, who had held a press conference yesterday, in which he was requesting any members of the public who had seen any unfamiliar people or vehicles in the area on Saturday evening to phone either the Incident Room or Crimestoppers, with both numbers beneath.

‘Anything new in that piece?’ he asked.

She shook her head. ‘You OK? You’re looking pale.’

‘I’m OK, thanks, just didn’t sleep well again last night.’

‘Me neither. Have something to eat, you’ll feel better. Want me to cook you some eggs?’

‘I’ll just grab some cereal and coffee, something I need to do urgently.’

‘Oh?’

He picked the dog bowls off the floor and, as they looked at him expectantly, scooped a generous amount of their dry food into each, took a packet of grated Cheddar from the fridge and sprinkled some over each portion. Rambo barked excitedly. Then he squeezed a couple of drops of hemp oil onto the biscuits in both bowls, something they’d read was good for their dogs’ health, made the dogs sit, set down the bowls on the floor and made them wait for a few moments before, with a sweep of his right arm, he said, ‘OK, Rambo, OK, Rocky!’

The dogs fell on their bowls as it they’d been starved for weeks. Hegarty switched on the coffee machine, then grabbed one of the chairs from the table, carried it over to the work surface and climbed onto it, balancing precariously.

‘What are you doing, darling?’ Natalie asked, alarmed.

‘Just getting this down.’ He reached up and gripped either side of the Banksy copy he’d made, of two policemen kissing, unhooked it and lifted it down. Then he climbed off the chair.

‘I liked it there,’ she said.

‘I’ll explain everything later, my love,’ he said and carried it through into his studio, removed his current work, the Lowry copy, from the easel and sat the Banksy there.

He hurried back into the kitchen, ignoring his wife’s quizzical gaze, made himself a double espresso while gobbling down a banana, then took his coffee back into the studio. Setting it down, he picked up a jar of acetone, selected a fresh paintbrush, dipped it in, and then began, gently coating a small area at the top of the Banksy with the chemical.

Within seconds, that part of the Banksy started to dissolve, revealing a section of the painting beneath. He coated a wider section with the acetone, and as more of the Banksy disappeared, more of the painting beneath, in all its brilliant colours and dense texture, was revealed intact.

In less than fifteen minutes, all traces of the Banksy were gone completely.

Despite the rush he was in, Hegarty could not help taking a couple of minutes to admire what lay beneath. It was sensational. He could actually understand anyone being desperate to own this. It was just glorious. Magical.

Then he set to work replacing the wooden frame with a gilded one, identical to the one which had been on the painting when Harry Kipling had brought it to him. He recalled Harry telling him, ironically, that he’d only bought the picture in the first place for the frame.

He stood back and allowed himself a few more precious moments to admire his handiwork. Or rather, the handiwork of one of the long-dead greats.

And despite the fear roiling through him, he couldn’t help himself, he was staring at it wistfully. Respectfully.

Secure on his easel in front of him was the original Fragonard painting of Summer that Harry Kipling had brought him to copy, five weeks ago.